


We Don't Take Hits, We Write Them

by btBatt



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Past Abuse, Van Days
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-14 12:40:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3410972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/btBatt/pseuds/btBatt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick's got no problems entering screaming matches till both parties are blue in the face. Though there seems to be a line between acceptable argument and scaring the shit out of Pete's teenage manifestation of a golden ticket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Half Moment

**Author's Note:**

> Tags may very well change as I write. Bear with me, please.

It’s something stupid. It’s—Patrick wants to change a line so it’s shorter, so it actually fits with the song and _fuck, Pete, stop being such a drama queen—no, I won’t be able to pronounce that!_ They’re still feeling out this whole Pete’s-words-and-Patrick’s-music thing, it’s still a little new and maybe they’ve been in the studio for four straight days and are forgetting what the sun looks like. Maybe they’re tired. Joe tries to put in his two cents but promptly shuts up when Pete snaps at him.

So, it’s something but it’s hardly anything at all. It’s definitely not Pete and Patrick’s first fight, not even this week, but for some reason this is the first studio fight that progresses past slightly-raised-voices. Maybe because Andy’s finally too tired to pry one of them away until they both calm down, and shit, he’s looking like he’s really regretting having agreed to record this album, eyes unfocused and resigned. Or maybe he’s just learning coping mechanisms in preparation for spending long hours in a van with the both of them. Pete can hope, anyway. Maybe he’ll stick around.

Maybemaybemaybe. Pete’s not exactly sure of too much at the moment because Patrick’s still yelling, and now he’s unhooking his guitar strap and Pete’s matching him shout-for-shout, movement-for-movement, setting his bass aside and standing to face him. To his credit, Joe makes a grab for Patrick’s wrist and tries to pull him back down to his chair, but Patrick just yanks his arm away. Joe slumps and looks a million times more annoyed than Andy, but equally as resigned.

There are a couple of veins that look like they’re about to burst out of Patrick’s forehead and his face is bright red around his scowl. Pete doesn’t know why he’s noticing any of this, but at the same time he’s hardly aware of the words coming out of their mouths, though he must on some level since he’s replying, right?

They’re both leaning towards each other, fists balled up, and Pete doesn’t know he’s stepping forward until his foot lands. There’s half of a moment where Pete’s still screaming but Patrick stops, quiets, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. He takes half a step back just as Pete’s brain starts to catch up with the situation. His anger is losing steam to his confusion and budding concern, though his voice is still undeniable laced with irritation when he speaks.

“Dude, Patrick, what the fuck—?”

Pete doesn’t get out a full sentence before Patrick’s recovered, drawn up to his full height again, fixed Pete with a glare and swung a fist at him all in one fluid motion.

_He was aiming for my nose,_ Pete thinks blearily from the ground. He reaches up to feel his jaw (it’s not broken, nothing more than bruised really fucking hard and it’s already swelling) and Patrick’s out the door already, Joe trotting after him.  
 “Hey, you okay?” Andy asks, squatting beside him, nudging him into a sitting position.

“He…yeah.”

Pete doesn’t know what to say. He—what? He something, that’s for sure, but Pete has no idea what.

His brain is going a lot faster than he can actually keep up with—and he and his brain are two entirely different entities somehow, he’s not sure exactly how though. There’s not a lot he can do besides sit and stare because there’s no room left for his neurons to communicate with his muscles and nerves. Andy asks a couple of questions, persistently. Pete tunes in long enough to say that no, he didn’t hit his head, and then Andy backs off. Joe comes stumbling through the door a minute later, winded and leaning against the frame. He lost Patrick, chased him a couple blocks before turning back.

“He’ll probably come back,” Joe says when Pete stays quiet.

Somehow, Pete doubts it. “Maybe,” he says.

They work for another forty minutes, citing the fact that their manager booked the time for them and they’d be wasting her money to leave now. Not-so-secretly, they all glance towards the doors every thirty seconds. Patrick doesn’t come back, and they eventually leave. Pete will admit to calling Patrick as soon as he gets home. His mom answers and says Patrick doesn’t want to talk right now, sorry, but can she take a message? Pete says no (no, _thank you_ because he has to be polite and kiss Patrick’s mom’s ass if he wants his tiny fireball of a singer to come on any more tours) and heats up the leftovers from his parents’ dinner. At least Patrick didn’t have his mom lie and say he wasn’t home. At least he’s safe.

Pete’s laying in bed, hours later (hours and hours later, days, weeks, even, or that’s what it feels like), when he figures it out. Patrick—for that half moment’s time—had look absolutely and utterly terrified of him.

But then Patrick shows up at the studio the next day when they’re scheduled to record, and he goes to great lengths to pretend yesterday didn’t happen. He doesn’t mention the lyric again but Pete’s already changed it to what Patrick had proposed in the first place (no matter that it fucks the metaphor and loses meaning, whatever, he’s not bitter about it anymore). Pete goes along with all of it, sharing a worried glance with Andy behind his back. Andy looks concerned too, invested, and Pete thinks he might stick around to tour if he cares this much.


	2. Not Nothing

Turns out, he does. Andy tours with them and he’s awesome because he can drive for, like, ever without getting drowsy and he’s the drummer of the gods or some shit, and Pete is so happy. Life goes on, they don’t mention the fight or Patrick’s terrified half moment. It’s months later, the record is out, and some people actually like their music (holy shit) when it happens again. And it’s not even Pete’s fault.

Pete’s done a fine job of kissing Patricia’s ass and they’re on an actual, honest-to-God tour over summer break. Granted, they’re still playing the same, shitty little dives and holes in the wall, but it’s great. It’s getting there. They’ve played a lot of these places before, and some people remember them, and some people _know the words_ which Pete gets a rush from and Patrick gets this little smile on his face whenever it happens that says he’s not used to it yet.

They mostly even get paid in money, which is kind of a novel idea. One that Pete can agree with. They even get a couple free beers some places in addition.

He’s drinking one of those free beers tonight. Some places the bartender will look the other way as Pete passes the free drinks on to Patrick and Joe. Andy looks the other way too, but always with a long-suffering sigh that has much more to do with the alcohol than the kids’ ages.

The show was pretty great tonight, and Patrick only ever gives Pete puppy dog, let-me-drink-my-sorrows-please-that-was-awful eyes when they’ve had a horrible show and he wants to wallow for a while. Instead, he’s drinking a Coke and talking to a group of people about…Pete’s not exactly sure, but he’s just buzzed enough himself to let the happiness in Patrick’s voice carry across the bar and over him. Joe’s not drinking either, but he’s only ever desperate for booze when he’s out of weed, and he spent the show slightly stoned and Pete can’t actually see him right now so it’s pretty safe to assume that he’s off smoking a bowl since their set’s over.

He swings back around on his bar stool, mostly just because he can, and partly to see the bartender. As soon as he gets the man’s attention, he asks, “How far do the free drinks go?” with a charming smile.

The bartender, a thirty-something man that reminds Pete of a sailor, grins sharply. “Depends on who far you’ve gotta drive tonight?”

Pete laughs, taken aback by the sentiment. He supposes that the man can afford to be more concerned with his customers’ safety when they’re not actually paying for the drinks. The guy’s hot, Pete notes with a second glance, but maybe too old, and definitely a little more built than Pete’s normal type. He’s a bit surprised to find that he doesn’t even particularly want to get laid tonight. He feels sated, and pretty happy, for what feels like the first time in forever (for the first time since he and Jeanae blew up for real, for good). However, his moods have been known to change on a dime, so he puts on his best smirk just to keep his options open.

“Our drummer’s a straightedge purist. I’m a free man,” Pete declares. “And it’s not far to our next show anyway. We could probably sleep it off and leave in the morning if we so desired.”

“In that case,” he man shrugs, “as much as you care to drink.”

Pete opens his mouth to…say something low and surgery, he’s not sure. There are half a dozen automatic responses to that, and Pete’s pretty sure the guy wouldn’t care if he purred like a fucking cat at this point. Pete opens his mouth to respond when Patrick’s voice floats over to him, sharp and staccato in the way it gets when Patrick’s actually upset.

“Fuck…hey! Knock it off!”

Pete pauses, brow furrowed, because Patrick really hates being treated like a kid and Pete’s been learning honest-to-God impulse control lately. But then Pete hears him scream, “Don’t _touch_ me!” with that hysterical edge to his voice and he whips back around on his bar stool faster than should be possible, adrenaline dancing in his veins with alcohol and seething rage.

“Hey!” he barks. Patrick actually backed up against the fucking wall with some guy crowding into his personal space. Patrick’s hands are splayed on the wall behind him and he’s straining his neck like he wants to lean away and there's nowhere to lean.

Pete’s down and moving towards them before his brain gives his feet permission. The guy doesn’t hear him until Pete grabs him by the shoulder and spins him around.

“Motherfucker!” Pete spits. “What the _fuck?”_

The guy—at least Pete’s age, probably half a foot taller and twice as strong as Pete himself—blinks in confusion. Says, “Hey, man, back the fuck off. We were just—”

Pete’s fist collides with the man’s face, and it feels like his knuckles go through the fuckhead’s teeth, and he grimly thanks the adrenaline for making him temporarily invincible. Pete is unbelievably angry, and Patrick’s eyes are wide and he looks afraid and somebody’s got to bleed for that. It’s a lot easier when it’s not Pete’s fault, takes less time and a solid right hook to extract revenge.

The man hits the floor pretty hard, but he starts moaning and groping clumsily at the wall almost instantly, so Pete thinks _fuck him_ and turns to Patrick.

Patrick, whose chest is heaving like he’s run a mile even though he’s frozen in the same position as when the man was all but pinning him there. He’s wearing the same brand of Absolute Terror that Pete recognizes instantly from that fight in the studio. When Pete takes a step towards him, Patrick’s eyes slam shut and he half-sobs and half-whimpers.

Pete’s heart breaks on the spot. With a lot of effort, he plants his feet firmly on the ground.

“Patrick,” he says softly, liltingly, wishing he had Patrick’s melodic voice because it’s warm and reassuring. But he works with what he’s got. “Hey, Lunchbox. Patrick, Patrick,” he chants slowly. Patrick breathing evens out eventually, though his muscles stay rigid and he stays glued to the wall.

Joe starts inching forward out of the corner of his eye, and Pete makes hand motions for him to stay put. He knows how worried Joe gets, and how anxious, but he’s also high right now and they really don’t need to crowd Patrick or overwhelm him. Joe backs up, but doesn’t look away. Pete looks back to Patrick.

“Patrick,” he says for the millionth time, “hey, man, look at me, yeah?”

Patrick blinks his eyes open but his breathing picks up a little again and Pete smiles at him, just a little.

“Yo,” Pete says, still in the same quiet voice.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick chokes out.

Pete wants to ask why, no, what’s wrong, what happened? He shakes his head instead, says, “Not your fault, dude.”

He doesn’t exactly know what to do, then. He knows what he wants to do, and that’s sweep this shaking little boy into his arms and never let go, but that would be a bad idea right now. But physical reassurances are more his forte. Patrick’s got the soothing words, but Pete’s never been afraid of bandaging the most gaping of the metaphoric wounds with his hands. He raises his hands slowly, palm up, and raises an eyebrow. Patrick shudders hard, once, before it returns to a small quacking of his entire frame, but he peels himself away from the wall and walks into Pete’s arms.

He makes another sob-like noise as Pete cradles the back of his beanie-clad head and rubs his back.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, but this time it’s muffled by Pete’s sweat-soaked hoodie as Pete shushes him. “I wanna go home.”

Pete nods, mostly because he doesn’t want to say _we’re in Indiana, man, sorry, you can’t go home right now,_ and partly because Patrick’s never sounded so young ever. Pete curls Patrick into his side and starts leading them out the door. Joe’s still pressed up against the edge of the bar, looking very high and very anxious, and Pete really does not need two teenagers freaking out on him right now, thank you very much. He pulls Patrick to a stop, but keeps him close.

“Hey, Joe, can you go find Andy and start packing equipment?”

“Yeah, um…yeah, sure.”

Joe does better when he’s got a task to focus on, especially when he feels like it’s helping or contributing, and Pete feels kind of like an adult, kind of like he’s handling this the way it needs to be handled as he ushers Patrick out into the summer-sticky evening and Joe slinks away to presumably find their drummer. Patrick’s face looks bright red, but it’s hard to tell in the dim lighting of the parking lot, and even if it is he doesn’t know if it’s from fear or anger or embarrassment.

Pete gets them all the way to the van before he realizes he doesn’t have the keys with him. Andy does, because Andy is sober, and right, right. He adjusts them both until they’re hugging properly again and Patrick tenses, minutely. Pete’s heart seizes and he pulls back, and Patrick looks a little confused.

He takes a moment to take stock. Okay…Pete’s totally confused too, but physical threat is Bad. Hinting at violence is Bad. Physical closeness is…Bad at the moment, maybe. Not usually. He doesn’t really know.

“Shit, man,” Pete groans. He’s getting a fucking headache here and he really wishes he hadn’t had those couple of beers.

“It’s fine,” Patrick reassures him quickly. He looks tired and restless, shifting his weight with his shoulders hunched. “It’s…I mean, it’s kind of a thing, but it’s….it’s not. It’s fine.” He waves his hand through the air in what Pete guesses is supposed to be emphasis, but he doesn’t know what’s being emphasized or what’s being said, and he’s getting really fucking frustrated. Not really at Patrick, per se, but…maybe a little. At the fact that Patrick won’t just tell him, hasn’t told him yet anyway, and definitely pissed off at whoever the fuck did this to Patrick.

“It’s really not,” he snaps back, a little more forcefully than he really means. Patrick squeezes his eyes shut. “Hey, fuck, no.” Pete has to physically restrain himself from hugging Patrick this time. “I didn’t….I’m not mad at you, you know that, right? And even if I was, I’d never fucking hurt you, yeah?”

And Pete knows, okay? He knows he has this reputation. The angry, crazy fuck from Arma Angelus. The kid who puts his fist through the walls and the piece of shit that starts bar fights when he’s having a particularly shitty day. He knows what people think of him, but he’s not about to hurt Patrick. He couldn’t. Patrick has to _know_ that, right? But Patrick’s still just staring at him, eyes steady and sad until Pete feels like his bones are going to vibrate until he falls apart. Patrick smiles then, and steps forward just enough to gather _Pete_ into a hug, what the fuck.

“You totally would,” Patrick whispers into his shoulder, “but only if, like, you were in a mood where you wanted to hurt yourself too.”

That stings but Pete just hangs on tighter because it’s true and Patrick knows him too well. He knows him too well, and Pete’s kind of waiting for this perfect kid to go running for the hills.

“But never on purpose,” he whispers back, trying for joking and missing by about a mile.

“No,” Patrick agrees. “Never on purpose.”

They pull out of the hug and it’s quiet, and muggy, and the air is pressing down around them.

“It’s not nothing,” Pete says again.

“Pete—”

“And don’t try to tell me that it is. Because I might be crazy, but I’m not imagining this.” Patrick stays quiet then, won’t meet his eyes. He looks uncomfortable again, like he wants to bolt.

“I’m not…” Patrick looks at him and sighs sharply, averting his gaze again. “Fine. It’s not nothing. But I don’t want to talk about it.”

Patrick’s shifting again, looking like he wants to bolt, and the restless energy is starting to get under Pete’s skin too. He’s anxious and he’s fucking worried, okay, and he looks out at the stillness of the parking lot and it’s more eerie than comforting. There’s a flickering streetlight and a couple of people in dark clothes hanging out near the building and while it’s nothing out of the ordinary, Pete suddenly wants to take Patrick away from it. The promise he made to Patricia comes to mind, how he swore to protect Patrick on the road, said nothing bad would happen to Patrick, her Patrick, his Patrick.

Pete’s grabbing Patrick’s sleeve before he even really decides to, asking, “Pancakes, whaddaya say? Pancakes for Pattycakes,” as he starts leading him away. Patrick stops, takes his arm from Pete’s grip and narrows his eyes. After a moment, he cocks his head to the side suspiciously.

“Waffles, and don’t call me that, dickhead.”

Something unravels in Pete, some of the tension bleeds out and into the shadows. He grins and grabs Patrick again, dragging him to the end of the lot. He’s not sure where Andy is and doesn’t want to go inside and hunt him down for the keys, and he’s got his cellphone and wallet, so he leads Patrick to the payphone next to the street and looks up the number for a local cab service.

It’s not until they’re seated with cups of coffee in front of them, and Patrick’s already kicked Pete under the table twice for forgetting his manners with the waitress, that Pete feels the wrongness again. It’s a sick twist in his stomach and a hot stab of pain in his brain that makes his fists clench as he watches Patrick make himself small and hunch over his coffee to absorb the heat. He wants to throw a punch at someone, wants to know who he can blame for hurting Patrick.

“We’re talking about this,” Pete says quietly. Patrick looks up and blinks.

“About what?” And he looks so innocent and unaware of what Pete’s talking about, and that’s the telltale sign that he _knows_. He knows exactly what Pete means. The first thing he learned about Patrick, after his horrendous fashion sense and his voice of the gods, is that he is not as angelic as that voice would have you believe.

“About what happened with that guy,” Pete replies steadily, a little louder.

“The not-nothing,” Patrick says. His eyes slip closed for a few moments and it lasts long enough that Pete thinks he might be playing dead, what the fuck, what kind of a strategy is that, before Patrick looks down at his coffee. “Just…not right now? I don’t—it’s…been a long night,” he finishes lamely, like he knows it’s a horrible excuse.

And, okay, it really is, but Pete doesn’t like the way Patrick looks—like he’s afraid of Pete, like he doesn’t want to be in the same room as him. Pete sighs and aligns their toes under the table, swinging both of their legs back and forth.

“Yeah, okay. Later.”

“Later,” Patrick agrees, reaching for the creamer.

And that’s the end of the conversation.


	3. Small Voices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter cuts off kind of abruptly. Technically, this is the first half of a chapter that's ending up longer than originally planned, and I haven't updated in a while, so I'm posting what's written now.

Turns out, he does. Andy tours with them and he’s awesome because he can drive for, like, ever without getting drowsy and he’s the drummer of the gods or some shit, and Pete is so happy. Life goes on, they don’t mention the fight or Patrick’s terrified half moment. It’s months later, the record is out, and some people actually like their music (holy shit) when it happens again. And it’s not even Pete’s fault.

Pete’s done a fine job of kissing Patricia’s ass and they’re on an actual, honest-to-God tour over summer break. Granted, they’re still playing the same, shitty little dives and holes in the wall, but it’s great. It’s getting there. They’ve played a lot of these places before, and some people remember them, and some people _know the words_ which Pete gets a rush from and Patrick gets this little smile on his face whenever it happens that says he’s not used to it yet.

They mostly even get paid in money, which is kind of a novel idea. One that Pete can agree with. They even get a couple free beers some places in addition.

He’s drinking one of those free beers tonight. Some places the bartender will look the other way as Pete passes the free drinks on to Patrick and Joe. Andy looks the other way too, but always with a long-suffering sigh that has much more to do with the alcohol than the kids’ ages.

The show was pretty great tonight, and Patrick only ever gives Pete puppy dog, let-me-drink-my-sorrows-please-that-was-awful eyes when they’ve had a horrible show and he wants to wallow for a while. Instead, he’s drinking a Coke and talking to a group of people about…Pete’s not exactly sure, but he’s just buzzed enough himself to let the happiness in Patrick’s voice carry across the bar and over him. Joe’s not drinking either, but he’s only ever desperate for booze when he’s out of weed, and he spent the show slightly stoned and Pete can’t actually see him right now so it’s pretty safe to assume that he’s off smoking a bowl since their set’s over.

He swings back around on his bar stool, mostly just because he can, and partly to see the bartender. As soon as he gets the man’s attention, he asks, “How far do the free drinks go?” with a charming smile.

The bartender, a thirty-something man that reminds Pete of a sailor, grins sharply. “Depends on who far you’ve gotta drive tonight?”

Pete laughs, taken aback by the sentiment. He supposes that the man can afford to be more concerned with his customers’ safety when they’re not actually paying for the drinks. The guy’s hot, Pete notes with a second glance, but maybe too old, and definitely a little more built than Pete’s normal type. He’s a bit surprised to find that he doesn’t even particularly want to get laid tonight. He feels sated, and pretty happy, for what feels like the first time in forever (for the first time since he and Jeanae blew up for real, for good). However, his moods have been known to change on a dime, so he puts on his best smirk just to keep his options open.

“Our drummer’s a straightedge purist. I’m a free man,” Pete declares. “And it’s not far to our next show anyway. We could probably sleep it off and leave in the morning if we so desired.”

“In that case,” he man shrugs, “as much as you care to drink.”

Pete opens his mouth to…say something low and surgery, he’s not sure. There are half a dozen automatic responses to that, and Pete’s pretty sure the guy wouldn’t care if he purred like a fucking cat at this point. Pete opens his mouth to respond when Patrick’s voice floats over to him, sharp and staccato in the way it gets when Patrick’s actually upset.

“Fuck…hey! Knock it off!”

Pete pauses, brow furrowed, because Patrick really hates being treated like a kid and Pete’s been learning honest-to-God impulse control lately. But then Pete hears him scream, “Don’t _touch_ me!” with that hysterical edge to his voice and he whips back around on his bar stool faster than should be possible, adrenaline dancing in his veins with alcohol and seething rage.

“Hey!” he barks. Patrick actually backed up against the fucking wall with some guy crowding into his personal space. Patrick’s hands are splayed on the wall behind him and he’s straining his neck like he wants to lean away and there's nowhere to lean.

Pete’s down and moving towards them before his brain gives his feet permission. The guy doesn’t hear him until Pete grabs him by the shoulder and spins him around.

“Motherfucker!” Pete spits. “What the _fuck?”_

The guy—at least Pete’s age, probably half a foot taller and twice as strong as Pete himself—blinks in confusion. Says, “Hey, man, back the fuck off. We were just—”

Pete’s fist collides with the man’s face, and it feels like his knuckles go through the fuckhead’s teeth, and he grimly thanks the adrenaline for making him temporarily invincible. Pete is unbelievably angry, and Patrick’s eyes are wide and he looks afraid and somebody’s got to bleed for that. It’s a lot easier when it’s not Pete’s fault, takes less time and a solid right hook to extract revenge.

The man hits the floor pretty hard, but he starts moaning and groping clumsily at the wall almost instantly, so Pete thinks _fuck him_ and turns to Patrick.

Patrick, whose chest is heaving like he’s run a mile even though he’s frozen in the same position as when the man was all but pinning him there. He’s wearing the same brand of Absolute Terror that Pete recognizes instantly from that fight in the studio. When Pete takes a step towards him, Patrick’s eyes slam shut and he half-sobs and half-whimpers.

Pete’s heart breaks on the spot. With a lot of effort, he plants his feet firmly on the ground.

“Patrick,” he says softly, liltingly, wishing he had Patrick’s melodic voice because it’s warm and reassuring. But he works with what he’s got. “Hey, Lunchbox. Patrick, Patrick,” he chants slowly. Patrick breathing evens out eventually, though his muscles stay rigid and he stays glued to the wall.

Joe starts inching forward out of the corner of his eye, and Pete makes hand motions for him to stay put. He knows how worried Joe gets, and how anxious, but he’s also high right now and they really don’t need to crowd Patrick or overwhelm him. Joe backs up, but doesn’t look away. Pete looks back to Patrick.

“Patrick,” he says for the millionth time, “hey, man, look at me, yeah?”

Patrick blinks his eyes open but his breathing picks up a little again and Pete smiles at him, just a little.

“Yo,” Pete says, still in the same quiet voice.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick chokes out.

Pete wants to ask why, no, what’s wrong, what happened? He shakes his head instead, says, “Not your fault, dude.”

He doesn’t exactly know what to do, then. He knows what he wants to do, and that’s sweep this shaking little boy into his arms and never let go, but that would be a bad idea right now. But physical reassurances are more his forte. Patrick’s got the soothing words, but Pete’s never been afraid of bandaging the most gaping of the metaphoric wounds with his hands. He raises his hands slowly, palm up, and raises an eyebrow. Patrick shudders hard, once, before it returns to a small quacking of his entire frame, but he peels himself away from the wall and walks into Pete’s arms.

He makes another sob-like noise as Pete cradles the back of his beanie-clad head and rubs his back.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, but this time it’s muffled by Pete’s sweat-soaked hoodie as Pete shushes him. “I wanna go home.”

Pete nods, mostly because he doesn’t want to say _we’re in Indiana, man, sorry, you can’t go home right now,_ and partly because Patrick’s never sounded so young ever. Pete curls Patrick into his side and starts leading them out the door. Joe’s still pressed up against the edge of the bar, looking very high and very anxious, and Pete really does not need two teenagers freaking out on him right now, thank you very much. He pulls Patrick to a stop, but keeps him close.

“Hey, Joe, can you go find Andy and start packing equipment?”

“Yeah, um…yeah, sure.”

Joe does better when he’s got a task to focus on, especially when he feels like it’s helping or contributing, and Pete feels kind of like an adult, kind of like he’s handling this the way it needs to be handled as he ushers Patrick out into the summer-sticky evening and Joe slinks away to presumably find their drummer. Patrick’s face looks bright red, but it’s hard to tell in the dim lighting of the parking lot, and even if it is he doesn’t know if it’s from fear or anger or embarrassment.

Pete gets them all the way to the van before he realizes he doesn’t have the keys with him. Andy does, because Andy is sober, and right, right. He adjusts them both until they’re hugging properly again and Patrick tenses, minutely. Pete’s heart seizes and he pulls back, and Patrick looks a little confused.

He takes a moment to take stock. Okay…Pete’s totally confused too, but physical threat is Bad. Hinting at violence is Bad. Physical closeness is…Bad at the moment, maybe. Not usually. He doesn’t really know.

“Shit, man,” Pete groans. He’s getting a fucking headache here and he really wishes he hadn’t had those couple of beers.

“It’s fine,” Patrick reassures him quickly. He looks tired and restless, shifting his weight with his shoulders hunched. “It’s…I mean, it’s kind of a thing, but it’s….it’s not. It’s fine.” He waves his hand through the air in what Pete guesses is supposed to be emphasis, but he doesn’t know what’s being emphasized or what’s being said, and he’s getting really fucking frustrated. Not really at Patrick, per se, but…maybe a little. At the fact that Patrick won’t just tell him, hasn’t told him yet anyway, and definitely pissed off at whoever the fuck did this to Patrick.

“It’s really not,” he snaps back, a little more forcefully than he really means. Patrick squeezes his eyes shut. “Hey, fuck, no.” Pete has to physically restrain himself from hugging Patrick this time. “I didn’t….I’m not mad at you, you know that, right? And even if I was, I’d never fucking hurt you, yeah?”

And Pete knows, okay? He knows he has this reputation. The angry, crazy fuck from Arma Angelus. The kid who puts his fist through the walls and the piece of shit that starts bar fights when he’s having a particularly shitty day. He knows what people think of him, but he’s not about to hurt Patrick. He couldn’t. Patrick has to _know_ that, right? But Patrick’s still just staring at him, eyes steady and sad until Pete feels like his bones are going to vibrate until he falls apart. Patrick smiles then, and steps forward just enough to gather _Pete_ into a hug, what the fuck.

“You totally would,” Patrick whispers into his shoulder, “but only if, like, you were in a mood where you wanted to hurt yourself too.”

That stings but Pete just hangs on tighter because it’s true and Patrick knows him too well. He knows him too well, and Pete’s kind of waiting for this perfect kid to go running for the hills.

“But never on purpose,” he whispers back, trying for joking and missing by about a mile.

“No,” Patrick agrees. “Never on purpose.”

They pull out of the hug and it’s quiet, and muggy, and the air is pressing down around them.

“It’s not nothing,” Pete says again.

“Pete—”

“And don’t try to tell me that it is. Because I might be crazy, but I’m not imagining this.” Patrick stays quiet then, won’t meet his eyes. He looks uncomfortable again, like he wants to bolt.

“I’m not…” Patrick looks at him and sighs sharply, averting his gaze again. “Fine. It’s not nothing. But I don’t want to talk about it.”

Patrick’s shifting again, looking like he wants to bolt, and the restless energy is starting to get under Pete’s skin too. He’s anxious and he’s fucking worried, okay, and he looks out at the stillness of the parking lot and it’s more eerie than comforting. There’s a flickering streetlight and a couple of people in dark clothes hanging out near the building and while it’s nothing out of the ordinary, Pete suddenly wants to take Patrick away from it. The promise he made to Patricia comes to mind, how he swore to protect Patrick on the road, said nothing bad would happen to Patrick, her Patrick, his Patrick.

Pete’s grabbing Patrick’s sleeve before he even really decides to, asking, “Pancakes, whaddaya say? Pancakes for Pattycakes,” as he starts leading him away. Patrick stops, takes his arm from Pete’s grip and narrows his eyes. After a moment, he cocks his head to the side suspiciously.

“Waffles, and don’t call me that, dickhead.”

Something unravels in Pete, some of the tension bleeds out and into the shadows. He grins and grabs Patrick again, dragging him to the end of the lot. He’s not sure where Andy is and doesn’t want to go inside and hunt him down for the keys, and he’s got his cellphone and wallet, so he leads Patrick to the payphone next to the street and looks up the number for a local cab service.

It’s not until they’re seated with cups of coffee in front of them, and Patrick’s already kicked Pete under the table twice for forgetting his manners with the waitress, that Pete feels the wrongness again. It’s a sick twist in his stomach and a hot stab of pain in his brain that makes his fists clench as he watches Patrick make himself small and hunch over his coffee to absorb the heat. He wants to throw a punch at someone, wants to know who he can blame for hurting Patrick.

“We’re talking about this,” Pete says quietly. Patrick looks up and blinks.

“About what?” And he looks so innocent and unaware of what Pete’s talking about, and that’s the telltale sign that he _knows_. He knows exactly what Pete means. The first thing he learned about Patrick, after his horrendous fashion sense and his voice of the gods, is that he is not as angelic as that voice would have you believe.

“About what happened with that guy,” Pete replies steadily, a little louder.

“The not-nothing,” Patrick says. His eyes slip closed for a few moments and it lasts long enough that Pete thinks he might be playing dead, what the fuck, what kind of a strategy is that, before Patrick looks down at his coffee. “Just…not right now? I don’t—it’s…been a long night,” he finishes lamely, like he knows it’s a horrible excuse.

And, okay, it really is, but Pete doesn’t like the way Patrick looks—like he’s afraid of Pete, like he doesn’t want to be in the same room as him. Pete sighs and aligns their toes under the table, swinging both of their legs back and forth.

“Yeah, okay. Later.”

“Later,” Patrick agrees, reaching for the creamer.

And that’s the end of the conversation.

CHAPTER 3

They don’t talk about it. Not for a few days because they’re pretty busy. And then the tour’s over, and then they’re home and Patrick is way more clever than Pete ever gave him credit for before because he usually tries to out-stubborn Pete, and sometimes he wins, but he usually doesn’t go as far as to hide things from him and wheedle out of conversations.

He’s good at it, and it’s not helped by the fact that every time Pete tries to bring it up Patrick starts to look upset instantly, in that quick fire, adrenaline-inducing way. And Pete really fucking hates making Patrick look like that, doesn’t want to be a source of distress for him more than he knows he already is. Because, let’s face it, Pete is a handful at the best of times. At his calmest, most stable, he is no walk in the park. If he were a Mario Kart level he’d be fucking Rainbow Road. Nice to look at, but an unsafe, slippery slope that leads to certain death.

So, Patrick is a master of avoidance. After a while, Pete just…lets it go. There aren’t any more incidents, and Pete doesn’t know how to bring it up without hurting Patrick. And, really, Pete will let Patrick get away with anything. It sounds much more dismissive than it is, because Pete’s still watching him pretty closely. So is Joe, and he and Patrick lag behind at practices sometimes and talk in low voices as they wind up cords (Pete’s not allowed to touch them since he’ll just wad them up and shove them away). Joe doesn’t seem especially concerned after their conversations, and Pete doesn’t ask, doesn’t know what he would say.

Time turns to liquid, and Pete has a lot more in this life than he’s ever dreamed of. They tour and tour and tour and Pete and Patrick write the whole time. Pete “dates” in a pretty twisted sense of the word. He either convinces himself he’s in love and throws his existence at sweet, unsuspecting girls with white teeth and chemical-filled hair, or he keeps them around for sex and the piece of mind another heartbeat brings. He’s the same train wreck he’s always been, but he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s really gone off the tracks or if it’s just what’s expected of him.

Patrick dates a couple of girls in the conventional sense, and he flirts with just about just as many boys. Pete gives him pointed looks until Patrick pulls him aside and very patiently explains bisexuality to him. Pete just rolls his eyes because _that’s not what I meant, asshole._

Life goes on and they get carted out to LA to record the new album. It sounds really good, even if ripping it out of them takes way longer than the time to rip off a bandaid and makes them all feel kind of raw. Back at the apartments they’ve been put up in, Joe smokes until he’s cross-eyed and Patrick eats in front of the TV until it’s late enough to sleep. Pete closes himself in his room, lights off, and dreams of a life where the audio engineers wouldn’t have to scream for hours on end just to get a decent bass line out of him (and he knows they don’t literally scream, but try telling that to his brain as it replays everything he’s done wrongwrong _wrong_ ). Andy, the bastard, does whatever the fuck he wants the 23 hours a day he’s not in the studio, because Andy’s a little too perfect and Pete would hate him if it were possible for anyone to hate him.

They spend a month in the City of Angels and, while Pete would normally argue with that metonym, this is probably the closest to sainthood he’s ever going to get. Some mornings start at the most ungodly of hours, and even when they can’t seem to get out a decent note, they’re kept in the studio for hours and hours. Even if they’re not exhausted by the time they get to the apartment, they’re frustrated to hell and back. Nobody talks to each other much at all, and when they do, it either dissolves into hopeless fits of giggling or tense screaming matches. And by the time they _return_ return, like, go home to Chicago, everybody’s ready to crawl home to their parents. They’re supposedly all sharing an apartment, but nobody wants to go shopping to fill their empty fridge—and nobody wants to pay for the food at all—so they all slink off in their own directions.

They’ve been home for a total of four hours when Pete’s phone rings. He looks down at the display, which reads _RICK TA LIFE_ and scowls—fondly, mind you. He’d thought for sure that it would take a lot longer to reestablish communication, and Patrick had crowed the whole time they were leaving the airport about how he was going to sleep for three days and eat everything in his mom’s house. Pete accepts the call, thinking that they mixed up their duffles. It’s happened before; they bought them at the same time, in preparation for their first tour.

“Pete?”

“Yo, man, what’s up?” he says, even as he rolls to the side of the bed to peer at his bag, still packed and sitting by the wall. There’s at least one keychain on each zipper, and it’s definitely Pete’s duffle because the only reason he started collecting the keychains was so they wouldn’t have anymore mixups.

“Are you at your parents’ house?”

Pete hums in response, still looking at the keychains.

“I…can you come unlock the apartment? I forgot my keys.”

“Why are you there?”

Pete sits up and plants his feet solidly on the carpet, free hand curling over the side of his childhood bed. He tries listening, but he can’t hear Patrick breathing on the other end of the line. There’s a beat of total silence and Pete can hear some low noise, but can’t quite place it.

“Can you come let me in?” he asks in a small voice. He’s not whispering and his voice doesn’t quite crack, so Pete can’t call him on it. It’s just that—small. The inverse of the voice that fills venues and is traced into CDs and, hell, the voice Pete fought with less than 48 hours ago pretty spectacularly. Small.

“I’m on my way. You already there?”

“Yeah.”

Pete hangs up and puts his shoes on and make sure he’s got his keys. He very carefully does not think as he half-jogs to his car and drives—too fast, but not unusually so—into the city. His shoulders are hunched the whole way there and his mind is on a single track that’s pulling him towards Patrick. He parks his car on the street, right behind Patrick’s, and approaches the driver’s side door like it’s a skittish animal. Even through the window’s tint, Pete can tell that his eyes are red. His cheeks are splotchy and Patrick’s always had the worst time hiding when he’s been crying, even though Pete’s only seen it a couple of times. He feels like a massive dick as he reaches out to knock on the window, but Patrick doesn’t jump. He doesn’t move at all, for a long moment, before cutting the engine and popping the door open. He gets out slowly and Pete stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

Patrick just shakes his head, but he doesn’t resist as Pete pulls him into a hug.

Pete’s mind whites out as they climb the stairs. He doesn’t know what to do, or what happened, or how to handle it, so he just ushers Patrick in before him like he’s guarding his friend, though what _from_ , he can’t even say.

When they get to their floor, Pete has to push past Patrick in the narrow hallway to unlock their door, but once they’re inside, Patrick just stands there. So Pete just stands there. And the air is heavy like it’s waiting, but Pete’s just confused and worried and Patrick’s still not saying anything. Patrick shrugs after a few minutes of awkward conversational purgatory.

“Thanks for, y’know, letting me in,” he says. “Sorry I took you away from your parents’ place.”

Pete lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “It’s nothing, ‘Trick. God, what happened?”

“Nothing.” He meets Pete’s eyes and they have a silent showdown of wills. Pete shakes his head after a moment to clear it. They’re not going to fight about this, Christ.

“It’s always something,” he says, and then, because they’re both standing just inside the closed door, he walks close enough to wrap an arm around Patrick’s shoulder and whisper in his ear, “in the late night. Around the corner, there’s always somethin’ waitin’ for ya!”

Patrick swats him for it and tells him to shut up, but there’s a small smile on his face. Small, small, he still looks as small as he sounded on the phone, and Pete tugs on him. “Sit down at least, man. You’re making me nervous.”

They end up on the couch and Pete pulls Patrick close and refuses to let him go. It’s quiet again, but an easier quiet, and since when is Patrick this small? Pete plays with the ends of his hair that stick out from under the trucker cap and he literally bites his tongue every time he wants to talk. Now’s not the time, and he doesn’t want to break the spell and ruin the quiet. He waits for Patrick, and it’s pretty much one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do, easier only because he gets to wait with Patrick wrapped in his arms, smelling a little like airplane air and a little like his mom’s house. Patrick finally heaves a sigh as the sun is setting (though that doesn’t mean much; it was already late afternoon when they got here).

“It really wasn’t anything,” he says. “I just freaked out—no reason. You know me.”

Pete hums. “I do, and I know that whenever you’ve freaked before, there was a reason.”

Patrick gets a little closer, ducks his head further down. “I should be _over_ it though. I don’t know why I can’t just—fuck, fuck…”

Patrick’s head goes so low that it ends up on Pete’s stomach and if he didn’t know any better he would say Patrick’s holding his breath. He moves his hand to Patrick’s shoulder and rubs, feels the absence of a rise or fall. After too long, his torso starts to jerk like it really wants air, hopping and twitching under Pete’s hand.

“Breathe, Patrick.”

And he does.

He just breathes for a moment and so does Pete, evenly and calmly, setting up a model for Patrick to follow. He’s a tad too used to this scene from the earliest days with Joe in makeshift “backstage” areas. It’s all about being composed and making the freaked-the-fuck-out party think you’re handling it and making it okay. They breathe, and eventually Patrick straightens up a bit and presses his nose into Pete’s shoulder.

“Can we order a pizza?” he asks, voice steady if hoarse.

“Sure,” Pete says, and he sounds tired to his own ears. His mom is cooking tonight, but she’ll understand. “Which place?”

“I don’t care. That place on Seventeenth you like?”

Pete nods and carefully extracts himself from their knot. He wanders to the kitchen with his cell and places an order for two deep dish pizzas, one pepperoni and one pineapple. He sends off a quick text to his mom that says something came up and he won’t be home for dinner, maybe not at all tonight, and grabs a couple of beers from the fridge. 

Patrick’s exactly where he left him, curled in on himself and staring at the edge of the end table.

“Forty minutes for the pizza. Here.” He hands one of the beers to Patrick and pries the cap from his own, taking a drink. Patrick rolls the bottle between his hands before following suit. He sits up and turns to face Pete as he sits down. Pete lets Patrick stare, hopes that he finds what he’s looking for. Patrick’s determination softens, and he just looks slightly ill as he takes another pull from his drink.

“You know when you and Jeanae broke up?” he asks, and usually that’s an invitation for a fight, but Patrick looks desperate and serious. Pete raises an eyebrow.

“Which time?”

“The last time,” Patrick says right away. “The time you knew it was over and you wanted to get over her.”

“…yeah.”

Patrick nods, like he’s pleased that Pete remembers. “And you started sleeping with people for a while and then you brought that girl to practice—“

“Amber?”

“Yeah? Yeah, I don’t know. But she was annoying as fucking hell and you just—you wanted to fall in love with her so badly, I think. You wanted to forget Jeanae.”

“I just…” Pete nods slowly. “I think I wanted to know I could still love. I had to love anyone to know I could still love someone. Someday.”

“Yeah! Exactly.”

“Dude, you don’t have to explain what a rebound is.”

“Yeah, I just…um. I’m trying to go somewhere with this.” Pete takes a drink to shut himself up (he’s never had infinite patience but he’s _trying_ here, okay?) and motions for Patrick to continue. “Uh, right. After my parents split, things were…not cool, but they were okay for a while. There weren’t anymore screaming matches in the middle of the night, and dinners were a lot less passive aggressive. That sort of thing, y’know?” Pete nods. Patrick doesn’t talk about his parents’ divorce much—or ever, basically. This conversation started out pretty weird and took a turn down the downright bizarre. “It was okay,” Patrick says, “and Mom kinda, I guess went for a rebound.”

Patrick turns his eyes on Pete again and he looks downright pleading. “They didn’t last a year even, and it…he was just _someone_ like that Amber girl was for you, and. And he never…he never did anything in front of Mom so she didn’t know because I didn’t…” Patrick’s hand makes its way to his hair and it looks like he’s running his fingers through it, but he’s tugging a little too sharply.

“Slow down,” Pete advises, putting a hand over Patrick’s to still it. He swallows and meets Pete’s eyes, holds his gaze. Pete’s heart is hammering away in his chest painfully and he wants to make Patrick stop talking, but he has to know. This is what he asked for in the first place, isn’t it? He just didn’t want it to be true. Wanted it to be a misunderstanding, or something he could fix.

“Do you know what gaslighting is?” Patrick asks. The word rings familiar, but Pete shakes his head. “It’s…basically, it’s when someone makes you think you’re crazy, I guess. It was, like, little things at first. I would buy food after school and it would be missing from the fridge after dinner and Mark—his name was Mark—he’d say I never brought anything home. He’d say he saw me go straight to my room when I got home.” Patrick laughs a little hollowly and takes another drink. “I thought I was going crazy. And then, like—“ his eyes flicker to Pete and away quickly. He ends up just closing his eyes instead of looking at anything. “The first time he hit me, I was so scared, and it fucking stung,” Patrick’s voice wavers and Pete grips his beer too tightly in his fist, wanting to be closer to Patrick but not wanting him to stop talking, “but I hadn’t thought he’d—he was pissed and I hadn’t backed down, but I didn’t think he was actually going to _hit_ me. Fuck, I was—I was fucking twelve years old. Who hits a twelve-year-old?”

Patrick puts his beer down and crumples forward, putting his face in his hands. Pete’s resolve crumples too and he scoots close enough to wrap Patrick in his arms and stick his nose in Patrick’s hair, his lips against the shell of his ear. Pete realizes he’s crying too as he hears Patrick’s choked-off sobs, and he’s saying things. _I would never hurt you, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know, how could he, I would never hurt you, you’re okay now._ Who the fuck actively plans to hurt a twelve-year-old Patrick? He probably wasn’t even in middle school yet, and some fucking asshole that his mom brought home to fuck was methodically making Patrick question his sanity, and Pete’s blood is absolutely boiling even as he’s crying.

“I don’’t—“ Patrick hiccups and then sniffles, and it should be gross (it kind of is) but it just makes Pete want to hold on tighter. So he does. “The next day he asked where I got the bruise and I didn’t—I was confused and angry and I kind of thought I really _had_ gone crazy.”

“I’m so sorry,” Pete says again, for lack of anything better.

“Not your fault,” Patrick mumbles. “And Mom left him after a while and things went back to normal and it was fine. I never told anyone.” Pete pulls back to look at him.

“You never told your mom?”

“They broke up.” He shakes his head. “There didn’t seem to be a point of making a fucking scene after he was gone.”

“Patrick,” he sighs. Patrick breaks eye contact.

“I know, okay? Just, it obviously fucked me up. It was fine mostly, except for when it wasn’t.”

“Like that time you walked out of the studio.”

Patrick nods, quirks a smile. “The first time, yeah.”

Pete laughs wetly. He doesn’t sound much better than Patrick does, but he laughs. He takes a breath and rolls his shoulders, loosening his death grip on Patrick.

“You know that I’m not one to go around and preach the wonders of therapy, but, like. You know that we’ve got some money now. If you wanted to talk to someone about this—and you’ve got every right to want to—we could work that out.”

“Thanks but…I really don’t think so. I just want it to…go away. I want it to not have happened, not to drag it out and all fucking around.”

“…you know as well as I do that that’s not how it really works.”

Patrick’s smile fades. “You can’t just wish it away.”

“Something like that, yeah.”

They lapse into silence again. It’s restful and Pete thinks they just need a few minutes to let the heavy words settle around them. They’re okay, he tells himself. He presses his nose back into Patrick’s hair and Patrick absolutely melts against him, boneless, like the confessions took all he had.

Pete jumps when the buzzer sounds, but Patrick blinks up at him and reminds him, “Pizza.” Pete blinks back so Patrick gets up to buzz the delivery person up.

The poor boy Patrick opens the door to looks sufficiently horrified to be face with recently-crying Patrick. He looks about five times worse than when Pete arrived, and his eyes are squinting from the saltwater and his hair standing up all over the place from Pete’s nose and his own hands. Pete snickers to himself as the boy literally _refuses_ Patrick’s tip, saying _no, no really, it’s fine_ and bolting back down the hall.

Pete and Patrick lose their shit before the door’s even closed. Pete has to get up despite the crippling laughter to take the boxes of pizza from Patrick, who’s about to dump them all over the floor. They end up on the couch again, giggling and stained with cheese and grease. Pete looks over and Patrick is sprawled out, one leg on the cushion beside him and the other propped on the coffee table. He kicked his shoes off at some point—and, shit, that looks comfortable—and he doesn’t look quite so small anymore.

_There you are,_ Pete thinks proudly. This isn’t the end of whatever ghosts are stuck in Patrick’s shadow, Pete knows, but Patrick (Pete’s Patrick as he’s always known him) is still here. The things in his shadow just jump out at him every now and then, and fuck if Pete isn’t going to help him reign those fuckers in. Like Peter Pan, he thinks. He’ll be Wendy and sew Patrick’s shadow back to his shoes. 

Pete throws a pepperoni that lands on the bill of Patrick’s hat and declares, “I’m going to sew your shadow back into place.” Patrick just kicks him for getting grease spots on his hat— _I like this hat, motherfucker._

_There you are._

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure how long this one will be. Probably only a few chapters. Thought I'd take this chance to say I accept prompts, if there's ever anything anyone wants me to write. I love that shit.


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